


The Absentee Landlord

by empires



Series: The Ricdentity Crisis [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon Typical Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Sex Work, amnesiac Dick Grayson, sex worker ric grayson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empires/pseuds/empires
Summary: During the events of Nightwing #50, Ric Grayson comes to several stunning conclusions regarding the life he led as Dick Grayson. Too bad they're all wrong.





	1. we have everything

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! i'm moving my tumblr fic to AO3. this story was me working through the amnesic dick/ric grayson storyline occuring in Nightwing right now. i have complicated feelings about the whole thing. on the other hand, travis moore's artwork has done what no other artist manged in the history of my tiny fanwriting career: inspired me to create a rentboy story. the story themes were inspired by two fabulous pieces of fanart by @cherrymiko-art ([art link](http://cherrymiko-art.tumblr.com/post/178727910893/incorrectgrayson-toddquotes-moonfox281)) and @crow-sizna ([art link](https://crow-sizna.tumblr.com/post/180778052083/working-with-a-new-screen-and-i-have-to-get-used)) who are hard at work in this, our ricdentity crisis. Also inspired by young galaxy – pretty boy, which has always been on my Dick Grayson playlist but has NEVER BEEN MORE FITTING.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The breathless refrain punctuates each thrust of the softening cock in a warm wet hole. Finally, Adam steps backwards, the last of his pleasure dribbling form him with a sigh.

“Damn, if you’re not good at that kid. Best I ever had.”

“I know.” Ric leans back on his heels, grinning. The flush of his cheeks lends him an embarrassed air. He stands after a moment, working the stiffness from his right knee and wipes the spittle from his chin. The taste of condom lands on the floor besides his shoe.

“You’ll be back again next week, won’t you?” Adam asks, casually, hands rinsing in the sink. His tie has been straightened. Pressed slacks neatly closed, peppered hair swept back from his temples.

Ric meets his gaze in the mirror and winks. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

 

* * *

 

Ric had been circling the old Mediterranean enclave of Gotham’s eastern island, one of the few neighborhoods he’s been allowed to poach fares, when a guy approached him at the corner. Not for a ride, but for sex. The guy was attractive enough. Only smelled like cheap shots and money, so Ric accepted. The world spins on the clink of coins exchanging hands, and Ric needed the money if only to keep the strange spectors of his past at a distance. He doesn’t want hand outs from people he doesn’t even remember.

After receiving a litany of hoarse compliments and a few greasy bills, Ric arrived at one stunning conclusion: he is criminally good at sex.

It explains why people feel so easy to him. Why he can spy a woman across the room and know exactly how to approach her, or how he can look a man in the eye and say the exact thing that will have him frothing and whining in seconds.

Ric starts picking up johns afterwards. Just a couple times a week. He calls it supplemental income. Soon, hustling becomes a regular thing atop his sometimes cabby work. He certainly sees more dollars rolling in. He sees less of his so-called family. Not at all, actually.

That little realization hits him one evening when he’s pressed against the side of his cab, hands working over a thin cock while wiry owner clings to his neck and sobs against his mouth.

A smirk spreads over his kiss-slickened lips.

Two birds, one stone.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks in and Ric’s entrepreneurial venture sees amazing results. He has a new route for his cab business, a new route for his street business, a new nickname, and a few new friends on the corner. Having someone to watch your back is essential, he’s told, and Ric might many things, but an idiot isn’t one of them. He buys into a collective run by Mani, another pro with a penchant for activism and organizing. Joining the collective grants Ric a protection network, instant information, and messages, apparently.

Mani taps on the roof of his taxi. “Hey Pretty Ricky. There’s a guy been asking about you. South east corner.”

Ric adjusts the rearview mirror until he can see the other end of the street. There’s a man standing with the other members of Mani’s collective. Tall, built like a muscled hour glass trapped in a tight red hooded sweatshirt.

“He got a history?”

Mani shakes his head. “Not like that. He checks in on us sometimes though. Trades info for cash. We think he’s scout for this one gang that used to protect the west side neighborhoods. Their leader was alright, think he even went legit. Then he murdered a guy on TV. And well, you know.”

Ric’s doesn’t know and doesn’t care. He’s more concerned with the creases in the guy’s new jeans and the heavy watch peeking from the cuff of his hoodie. It looks expensive.

“Thanks, Mani. I’ll see what he wants.”

The taxi rolls up to the light and then makes the slow trail around to the other side of the block. He pulls up to the corner and leans towards the window.

“Hey man, need a lift?”

The streetlamp shines directly behind the guy, casting a halo behind him and blurring soft shadows into his face. But Ric sees enough to mark him as good-looking, bordering on pretty from the length of those lashes and the stubborn fullness in his lips. It’s balanced by his body, which is built like a bank vault, thick, impenetrable, and filled with secrets.

“Yeah. Can you take me to 1428 Lexington Av?” the guy says in a husky Gotham accent. A lower westside native.

Ric taps the address into his phone. “The Sterling Hotel?”

“Yeah.”

The door unlocks with a flip of the switch. Ric nods towards the back. “Get in.”

Once the car eases into the double-parked streets, Ric gives his passenger another look. The spread of his thighs is confident, the stillness he exudes dangerous. He’s solid in a way Ric isn’t right now, probably never has been, and it has the hair shaved hair at the nape of his neck standing on end. It’s a good thing he likes his trade a little rough.

“You new in town, Red? Can I call you Red?”

The guy blinks, a shadow of something flickering over his face before settling into that steady blankness. “Right. The hoodie. No. I’m from the city. And yeah, you can call me Red.”

“What are you gonna call me?”

Red shrugs. “Company, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I’d like,” Ric says with a knowing grin. “Call me Pretty Ricky if _you_ like.”

 

* * *

 

The Sterling Hotel might be a couple steps above where Ric takes his newly acquired regulars, the Ten Spot Motel just off West Gotham bridge, but it’s got nothing on the private bathrooms in Gotham Towers. After giving the room a once over, he lobs that tidbit at Red, a toothy smile on his face. The comment rolls off Red’s wide shoulders.

“Never been,” is all he says, settling into a faux leather chair. From this angle, Ric can see the width of Red’s thighs, and he’s suddenly appreciating the lack of small talk

He unzips his jacket and hoodie and slides a hand over his toned abs. “You said something about company.”

Red stares at him for a moment then shakes his head. “I’m not into that,” he says quietly. “I want you to take a shower and then get into the bed.”

Ric eyes him, suspiciously. “And then what.”

“Then you sleep.”

“Excuse me?”

“You go to sleep,” Red repeats, slowing the words like Ric needs help understanding them.

“You’re serious?” Ric asks, just to be sure, and then the john nods. Just nods as if paying someone five-hundred up front to watch them sleep is reasonable. It’s the most ridiculous thing Ric’s ever heard and rubs a hand over the back of his head, amused by the sheer awkwardness of the situation. That amusement breaks into laughter, rich loud laughter he hasn’t had in as long as he can remember. He laughs so hard his eyes water,

At last some of the stone facade chips from Red’s face. His ears turn red. “Don’t. I’m like. A voyeur. I get off on that shit. Stop making a big deal about it.”

Ric wipes his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that was unprofessional of me wasn’t it?”

“Goddamn right,” Red huffs.

Ric chokes back another laughing fit at that and reevaluates Red’s age. He’d guessed thirty due to Red’s height and stature, but something about this moment makes him think Red is closer to his own age, maybe even younger. Certainly, less experienced if he needs to pay a dude to indulge his kinks rather than cuff a pretty boy and keep him close. Then again, gang machismo.…

Ric shrugs. It’s not any of his business.

“Alright. Let’s start over.” He rearranges his face into something softer. “I’m so tired, daddy. I’m gonna go take a shower and climb in bed so you can watch over me.”

Red’s jaw tightens then he swallows thickly, a contradiction. Ric can’t tell if he likes it or hates it. Then Red exhales and nods again. “Don’t call me that. But everything else is cool.”

The bathroom is clean and has a nice collection of toiletries that are a part of some self-proclaimed cruelty free apothecary. The rose scents are nice. Ric mixes it with the teak men’s wash in the shower and inhales hugely. Damn if he doesn’t love a good scent.

A betraying thought wiggles through his brain: did he like this before? Is he the kind of guy who stopped off to buy fresh flowers for his partner? For himself. Or did he have a shelf of expensive candles he’d light on special occasions? He cuts the musing before it can go further. It doesn’t matter. This is who he is now. A man who likes strong fragrances and taking money from people who pay to indulge their inner demons, to escape their loneliness.

After brushing his teeth and slathering himself down with lotion—and making a mental note to charm some extra bottles from staff before he leaves—Ric throws on the bathrobe. Red is still sitting in the chair. There’s an air about him that solidness that says he hadn’t moved once, not even when Ric purposefully left the bathroom door open. Well, it’s his money.

Ric pads over to him and places his hands on those thick thighs. “Am I clean enough for you?” He rolls his head to the side and shimmies up until he rests against Red’s chest. Dutifully, Red drags in a deep breath.

“Yeah. You smell nice.” He pushes Ric backwards, gentle but with such strength, Ric doesn’t have to feign a pout. “Get in the bed now.”

Ric does as he’s asked, demanded really, but he makes sure his back is turned before rolling his eyes. He climbs into under the duvet, sending a puff of lavender scented air into his face. A quick search under the pillows nets him a scent packet with fresh lavender in a silk bag.

“Hey,” he says, waving it in the air. “You looking to be my regular, babe, because a guy can get used to this kind of treatment.”

Red just settles further in his seat. “Just go to sleep, dude, damn.”

“I’ll have you know most people love to hear my voice. It’s always, ‘Pretty Ricky, speak to me, Pretty Ricky, your mouth is sweet, but your voice is gonna make me come.’ And, ‘You’re so pretty. Sing to me.’” He raises three fingers when Red scoffs at hm. “She was a former diva turned popstar. We made beautiful music together. And she said that in our duo, I was the pretty one.”

“You’re not that pretty,” Red says and turns off the lamp, but it’s there in his voice, a smile.

Ric closes his eyes and settles into the pillow.


	2. everything we have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please pay attention to the tags as the assault tags are relevant for this chapter only. Feel free to skip the scene that starts with "Damn you look pretty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody else is updating. I thought I'd toss one out too! Updatepalooza continues on.
> 
> If you read this on tumblr, give this section another chance. I've added several new scenes and (hopefully) smoothed out some of the bumpiness. I didn't add a beta though. All mistakes are mind.

After a busy, if profitable week, Ric rolls to a stop at the south east corner of Mani’s block. The cab dips as Red enters. He slides crisp hundred-dollar bills through the plastic partition.

“You must really like me,” Ric says, smirking down at his wallet.

“1428 Lexington Av,” is Red’s reply.

They arrive at the address. Red tosses twenties into the parking deck across the street, and they slip into the hotel from a side entrance. The elevator takes them to the eighteenth floor, and Ric follows his john to the same hotel room. It’s late enough that Dick doesn’t question the arrangement. Just takes a shower using the luxury toiletries, dries down, and prepares for bed.

When Ric finally exits, he’s wearing his underwear beneath the soft, white hotel bathrobe, and he smells like summertime sex. The bathroom light is the sole source illuminating the room. The bed is turned down, and Red is staring at his cell phone.

“You’re not filming me, are you?”

Red snorts. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just taking care of business.”

Hands on his hips, Ric stands next to the bed, waiting. Finally, Red looks up. Ric can’t quite read the expression on Red’s face. It’s somewhere between contemplative and regretful, maybe the slightest bit chagrined.

“Sorry,” Red mutters, tucking the phone into his pocket. “You have my full attention.”

“Thank you,” Ric says, saccharine sweet.

There’s only so much he can do in the near dark, but Ric tries to give a little performance now that those pretty green eyes are on him. He tosses his clothes at the foot of the bed then drops into the mattress with a lazy yawn. He stretches, angling his chest up and away, because he’s got good tits, or so he’s been told. He doesn’t think he imagines that hitching sound from across the room. He hopes he didn’t. Ric reaches for the remote to turn on the television. He spreads his knees, cups his dick, and flips through the channels idly for a few minutes before yawning hugely.

“Nothing good on. I guess I’ll go to bed.” Ric peeks at Red from beneath his lashes and sees nothing really. No motion, no dismay or approval. It’s irksome. Ric rolls onto his knees and crawls under the covers with an outrageous wiggle of his hips. The pillows smell like lavender, the sheets sinfully soft, and he doesn’t feign his yawn this time.

Gradually, when it appears that Red is true to his claims of voyeurism, Ric relaxes into the bed. The quiet sound of his own breathing lulls him to sleep.

Red is upgraded to client the third night he appears, a blustery evening where the wind seems to find every possible crack in Ric’s beat up cab and the ache in his knee becomes noticeable.

Payment received, Ric takes every shortcut he knows to get them to the warm hotel room in record time. Red doesn’t seem to care, paying for the cab ride and parking as usual.

The longer Ric’s in this game, the less strange Red’s request seems. There are thousands of different kinks to be indulged in, and frankly, Ric’s glad this particular john isn’t crying over him. And it’s not like he’s having to recover from any of the harder kinks his clients like to explore. He doesn’t have to clean his feet either after sex either, which is another positive. On the other hand, Red’s paying him a lot of money for nothing tangible in return. That kind of behavior is suspicious, at least the tiny people understanding antennae Ric has in the back of his head tells him. It makes him stare at Red, this strangely gentle giant with a steady roll of cash, through the reflection of his rearview mirror and wonder if he’s someone from Dick Grayson’s past.

Ric’s pretty sure he’s had no affiliation with gangs in the city, but it’s a possibility. He throws comments at Red trying to see if they had contact before he’d been shot in the head. Red answers without hesitation, a curious furrow in his brow, and hold’s Ric’s gaze with an intensity that makes the whole, “I watch people to get my jollies,” seem true. Nothing about Red’s responses trigger Ric’s bullshit meter. And then Red shuts down, a blank partition rolling over him, and Dick knows Red wants the conversation to end.

The bed’s still comfortable though. For the past hour, Ric’s been lying cradled in uber soft sheets pretending to sleep. The pain in his knee has subsided and his entire body feels flushed with pleasant heat. Sighing, Ric rolls to his back. One more week. He’ll take another five-hundred bucks and then he’ll cut Red off. Okay, one week more, but if he gets Red to touch him, he’ll increase to two weeks.

The thought shouldn’t intrigue him this much, but it does. A strong, quiet man who looks that good in a pair of sweats can’t help but capture the imagination. Red’s a challenge, and damn if Ric didn’t love a challenge. He’s learned at least this much about himself.

Maybe it’s time to take advantage of their arrangement and finally fall asleep. He turns on his side with a soft, sleepy grunt, and allows his thoughts to quiet. The tranquil state he’s building to is interrupted by a soft crackling sound. Plastic. Possibly a wrapper of some kind. Red certainly seems the type to use a condom to contain the mess. Ric allows a tiny, satisfied smirk to touch his lips. Finally, his patience has been vindicated. He’s been waiting for Red to derive some sort of physical pleasure from this arrangement. If he has to listen to Red beat off in a condom over his sleeping body, so be it. Maybe he’ll stop feeling halfway guilty about taking the cash.

But then he hears the telltale hiss of a soda bottle being uncapped. He sits up in the bed and slaps the bedside lamp. The light reveals Red curled guilty over a bottle of Choke, a packet of peanuts tipped at the opening.

“What the fuck?” Ric shouts.

Red blinks away a guilty expression and resumes pouring the nuts into his soda. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Didn’t eat anything tonight.”

Grunting, Ric falls back into the pillow. “I’m over here getting excited and you’re making yourself a nasty snack?” Has he ever felt this dumb? Ric honestly doesn't know.

“It’s not nasty.”

Ric tilts his gaze back to Red, who glares at him as if offended. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not nasty. Tastes pretty good, actually. You wanna try?” He holds out the bottle adding, “I haven’t touched the bottle yet,” like that’s what Ric’s worried about and not the bizarre eating habits from the socially awkward loser he’s made a client.

A lot of things suddenly make sense about the guy. Ric sighs.

“You know what. Why not?” He rolls to the side of the bed and makes “gimme” motions with his hands. Red pushes from his seat and hands the bottle over.

The first sip is small, the taste is weird, but something in Ric wants to try again. He gets a bigger mouthful. Salty sweet flavor curls down his tongue and. He blinks.

“That tastes pretty good,” he says, confused by his reaction. He takes one more sip to be sure, and yes, yes, he likes this.

“I know,” says Red. “Take it easy over there. That’s my dinner.”

When Ric hands the bottle back, it’s half full. Red glares at him. Ric winks at him after wiping his lips.

“Thanks for the meal, daddy.” He laughs when Red flips him the bird.

 

* * *

 

Ric lucks into the next home he decides to “housesit.” The home owner’s cleaning service’s manager’s niece took his cab and spent the ride complaining about all the rooms she has clean while the owner travels to Asia for twelve days. Really, he couldn’t have planned it better if he tried.

The home is a four-story brownstone with six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a chef’s kitchen, and a sorry security system. Ric hacks in without trying, disarming the home and bringing his things inside in less than ten minutes.

After choosing the attic guest room, Ric empties his luxury toiletries from the Sterling onto the counter and prepares the shower.

Like the other bathrooms in the home, mirrors adorn every wall to create the illusion of space. Ric unzips his jacket and hoodie and watches his reflection from four different angles. It’s kind of kinky. He can be into this.

He continues stripping slowly in the mirror and tells himself it isn’t practice. He just. Likes the way he looks. Likes the way his briefs hug the narrow slant of his hips, the round curve of his ass. He grips his cock and tugs gently watching the fabric and the callouses worn into his fingertips catch on the soft, white fabric. His cock falls free, hard, ready, and yeah, Ric thinks giving himself a sultry look, he can definitely be into this. He pumps his cock a few times choking at the head. Already his toes feel like curling. He decides to keep the shower door open to see his reflection better.

The shower has two heads, one for rainfall and another with alternating water patterns for massage. It’s glorious and he stands und the water for ten minutes before making use of his rose and teak soap.

Ric watches his own movements out the corner of his eye. The spread of deft fingers over golden skin, rising slightly over a thin scar that's long sinced closed. The sensation pulls strings inside his belly and tug his dick. Makes the tighten pleasantly. Warm water patters down his back, soap slicking his cock. Ric keeps his movements slow, teasing. He tilts a little to admire the flushed head peeking through his fingers. His lashes grow heavy, his breathing short as he fucks into his palm, thinking this is hot, so hot, how hot would it be with those unholy green eyes staring at him, in him, through him.

Ric comes all over his hand.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, when he’s driving through the teeming streets of Gotham and the brave sunlight pierces through the cloud cover and lingering shadows to touch Ric’s face, he’s struck with a random desire. An inexplicable craving. He’ll think, boy, I’d really like this thing right now, and the thing is mostly food. The perfect bagel and lox, a Danish, fried tofu, ham and swiss on sourdough, sugared peanuts, ramen at a nameless stand in Tokyo, sun-warmed dates as he walks on a beach, or a fresh minciunele. And then Ric will spend ten minutes wondering what that even is, how he knows the word and the flavor on his tongue when a picture of minciunele fails to spring to his mind.

He wonders why he wants those specific things. He thinks about what had happened in his past to make these things memorable.

The cravings are more than food. Often, Dick feels the need for sunny days, jazz flute over synthesized beats, wet grass on the soles of his bare feet. The desire for them, the knowledge that they are things to like and be liked, come from experiences. A memory. But Ric doesn’t remember where many of these cravings originated. He doesn’t know the full extent of what he likes, and he certainly doesn't remember what happened to make them so vital and so loved. He can look at any car on the road and a thousand details about it spring to his mind from the make and model to the manufacturer’s history. But does he like the car, and if so, why? If he doesn’t remember why he likes a thing, does he really like it?

So much of his life has been established by a man he doesn’t remember. A face that’s unfamiliar, a life that touched so deeply on the people that surrounded Dick Grayson. But it didn’t seem to matter enough now that he can’t remember any of it. Doesn’t want to and wouldn’t if he could. What does the past matter when he has the present to discover.

Once a week, Ric fights his way through the teeming streets of uptown Gotham and parks his cab near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He chooses a new restaurant to have lunch, new coffee concoction to try, and then he walks into the museum. The first time he wandered through without a purpose, just curious and then intently as room after room of the American art exhibits pulled an emotion loose. Now he goes to see if something resonates with him, to discover which paintings or sculptures or words alongside an exhibit strike an emotional chord within Ric Grayson. And if he doesn’t find something, no worries. He goes to one of the nearby shops with plans to return the next week. And in between that time, Ric will go to another neighborhood, visit other sites, find another fight, search for another silent tableau that makes him pause.

New experiences, new memories. A new life.

 

* * *

 

Ric meets Gloria Soo on a rainy Wednesday. She’s standing in front of an upscale grocer’s with far too many bags in her hand. Her head tilts to the sky, an offended frown on her face.

Ric rolls up to the sidewalk. “Hey. Excuse me, miss. Do you need some help?”

Ric knows he’s attractive even with the shaved head and the stitches visible from the driver’s side window. Still, her slow blush is gratifying.

“Yes. Yes, please. I’m only a few blocks away.” She says, swinging into the backseat. Her paper bags sit limply on the seat. As the rain comes down harder. “It wasn’t raining when I left. And then I started remembering all the staple things we needed. But I didn’t bring the cart to carry all these things home.” She laughs tiredly. “I’m a mess today. But I’m a lucky mess. You were right there when I needed you.”

He catches her dark eyes in the mirror and smiles. “A cabbie’s always right where he needs to be.”

It takes ten minutes to reach her apartment. She makes it three steps out of the cab before the bottom drops out of the sky and her bag. Fruit and cans roll down the sidewalk. It’s her lost expression that has Ric pulling the hood over his head and climbing out to help her.

“Come on,” he calls, collecting a sad pear from the ground. “I’ll help you take this up.”

Another bag falls victim to the rain. By the time they reach the apartment, Ric has an arm full of groceries and a bag of bread nudged beneath his chin. He awkwardly sets the items down on the kitchen island, while she scrambles to put items away between effusive thanks.

“It’s no problem,” Ric says, because it isn’t. “Nice place you got here. What is this, three bedrooms and an elevator?”

“Um. Yes. It’s nice.” She runs fingers through her damp hair. “I’m Gloria. Um.” She looks around the kitchen, then out the window. “It’s really coming down isn’t it.”

“Yeah. You just avoided disaster.”

Gloria laughs. “I am a disaster.”

“Eh,” Ric shrugs, “Not so bad from where I’m standing.” It earns him another blush. She turns back to the kitchen and puts another few items up.

“Before you go? Do you have to go? Would you like some wine?” Gloria turns towards the kitchen cabinets. “I need some wine.”

There’s wine already on the counter. Gloria pours a moderate glass of pinot grigio and downs it quickly. Ric patiently waits for her to fortify her courage in one long draught. The glass clinks on the counter, and she turns to Dick, dark hair curling over one shoulder.

“I’m a single mother of two. I don’t think things like this. I don’t _do_ things like this. I shouldn’t. And I wasn’t going to ask, but I think I might regret if I don’t ask. So, I’m just going to ask. Will you have sex with me?”

Ric takes in her stance, fist on hips, expression steely but for the vulnerable flash in her eyes.

“I usually get paid for that,” Ric says slowly, her expression doesn’t waver, so he continues, “But I can make an exception,” just as Gloria says, “Oh, money’s not a problem. I’m a consulting case manager with uh–”

They stare at each other again. Then Gloria laughs. “Hold on one moment.” She turns towards the hallway, leaping over a toy truck. Her pattering footsteps recede and then grow loud again. She returns with four hundred-dollar bills, two twenties, and a box of condoms that Dick later discovers expired two years go. That’s okay. He has his own.

They have sex in the guest room, with the rain pattering against the windows and the old bed frame creaking with each thrust. Gloria’s eyes are closed after the first kiss and remain that way the entire time. She keeps her eyes close to savor the moment, to feel nothing but Ric pushing in and out of her, fucking that wet pussy good so she can feel it for days and days, he says against her ear.

She doesn’t ask for his name, but he’ll remember hers, Gloria Soo, until he blinks, awaking in another place, another time, another body with the faintest impression of rain on his lips.

 

* * *

 

A Gotham City sunset is one hell of a sight.

Ric sees it happen across the city in a myriad of ways. Crossing one of the city’s seven bridges, where the slow orange burn slides over the hood of his car, rays growing fat and warm and scattering across the bay. Downtown where the buildings race each other into the sky and cast long shadows that grow darker, swallowing the last of the peach colored sky and replacing it with the buzz of neon lights.

Forty-eight sunsets since he’s left the hospital, and they’ve all been different. Nothing stays the same, sunsets, cities, people. Not a single person and neither should he.

 

* * *

 

Saturday night rolls around, and Ric finds himself reclining on the king-sized bed in his customary underwear and bathrobe stamped with the Sterling Hotel emblem.

“What did you order?”

Red looks up from his takeout, a small crease in his brow. “Spring rolls and a couple other things. You wanna try?” He holds out his chopsticks between which dangles what Red supposes is the said spring roll.

“Sure,” Ric says, sliding from the bed to his feet to Red’s knee in short order. It’s an unexpected move for both. Red freezes, eyes growing wide when Ric wiggles to make himself comfortable.

At least Red’s a gentleman enough not to tip him to the floor in a panicked fright.

He didn’t plan for dinner with Red, but a growl from his stomach had Red’s intense gaze on him in an instant. He couldn’t say no when Red asked if he was hungry or when he offered to order takeout. And Ric couldn’t let go of the softness in Red’s eyes when he’d said anything was good because most everything is new to him.

“Everything,” Red had repeated.

“Near about.”

“We’re close to V-city,” Red had said. “Have you tried banh-mi?”

Red paid for the meal, even edged his chair closer so he could see the television and offered a few cutting barbs towards the show Dick chooses. The food is good, and Ric thinks this will be a good memory. Red, banh-mi, and late-night dramas.

Ric takes a bite of the spring roll, chews thoughtfully, and then nods. “I like that. Can I have another bite?” He parts his lips, and watches Red agree before realizing Ric’s waiting to be fed. Curiously, Red does it again, face impassive as Ric leans in for his bite.

An inch given is a mile offered as far as Ric’s concerned. And while he files the phrase away to ponder later, he settles into Red’s lap. It’s a different kind of fun, feeling Red’s eyes on his lips and feeling the rumble of Red’s voice through his back while he explains the other small dishes he’d ordered. He can feel the minute spike in tension streaking through Red when Ric grabs his wrist, holding the chopsticks steady while he chews through the excess crystal noodles. And Ric’s a little surprised at the napkin thrust into his hands afterwards.

He dabs at his slick cheeks before tucking himself under Red’s chin.

“You know, I didn’t get it at first. The whole ‘voyeur’ thing but I think I do now. You’re really good at taking care of people, Red.”

Red grunts.

“You are. I bet no one expects it from you, because you’re so.” He trails away teasingly just to watch Red fidget in that solidly silent way he has. “So big. And you’re quiet, kind of dangerous. But you’re so tender with me.” Ric curls against Red’s chest and sighs. “Taking care of me.”

This close, he can feel Red’s breathing change. His chest rises and falls in in slow, controlled while the rest of him goes very still. Red’s lap is beginning to feel a little warmer. Ric sighs.

“Don’t stop, daddy. I want some more.”

Red lets out a soft sound, something deep and grinding. “One more bite,” he warns, softly.

“One more,” Ric agrees, bringing Red’s hand up and opens wide.

Ric decides he likes this too, the feel of Red’s body against his back, the steady heat and hardness pressed along the back of his thigh, the barely there brush of fingertips against his lips. It takes every ounce of control Ric has in his body to keep still, to stop himself from grinding and moaning while he guides Red’s hands under the bathrobe. But he wants to.

Instead, Ric swings up until he’s straddling Red’s thighs. Their faces are close now, the heat between them unescapable. Red’s green eyes stare up at him, heavy and dazed. Young. He doesn’t blink when Ric swims closer, but his long lashes close when Ric presses a lingering kiss to his cheek.

“I think I’m ready for bed,” he says, shrugging out of his robe. “Good night, daddy.”

And he thinks, while pushing up from Red’s lap with that intense gaze unrelenting over his body, Red wants him far more than he's letting on.

 

* * *

 

The back-passenger door slams hard enough to rock the car. Ric catches a glimpse of his latest fair in the mirror. He’s a tall, hawk-nosed man with thinning hair, and thin, pursed lips. A gray woolen coat hangs over his broad shoulders, and black leather briefcase rests against his knees. His eyes are sharp though, trained on his watch, and then the back of Ric’s head.

It’s the kind of look that sets Ric on edge, like he’s in the underground ring, ribs aching and knowing this last hit must count.

“4522 Schlepinger’s Warf. Take me to this address.” He speaks with a heavy accent that Ric’s never heard before but somehow knows is Turkish by way of Albania. He just knows, like he knows this man is dangerous.

“That’s by the bay, right? North or west docks? Long Shore or Gotham Bay South?” Ric turns in his seat a little to get a better look at the man and is met by a dark look.

“You are the driver, no?” he replies.

Ric manages to keep a pleasant face.

“Sure am,” he mutters, turning back to the road. He programs the address into his phone which charts a path from the bus station to Gotham’s southern waters.

The radio station drones in the background, commercials for this seasonal shows at the ice rink, the close out sale at Market, and all you can eat wing night at some obscure bar near Four Gardens. Beneath the ads, Ric hears the faint grumble of a hungry belly.

At the next stoplight, Ric reaches for a lighter stuck in the glove compartment and lights a cigarette. The smoke curls from between his lips and out the window.

“Need a light?”

The passenger reaches for the partition without thinking. He jerks his right hand back, but it’s too late. Ric’s seen the silver hand cuff around his wrist, although his eyes remain seemingly fixed forward, expression pleasantly vague.

“Thanks,” the passenger replies after lighting his own cigarette. Ric retrieves the lighter.

“There’s a lot of good food that side of town if you’re interested. Some new fish shacks and a craft brewery that partners with a steakhouse. But if you want the best meal you’ve ever had in Gotham, you’ll go to the shawarma stand on Greenpoint. Bout, oh, four blocks from the wharf.” Ric slides onto the expressway and drifts through the traffic.

The passenger makes a mild sound.

“I know, I know. Shawarma’s everywhere these days, but they’ve got a shawarma dog that is out of this world. I mean, chili cheese dog who? I am exclusively shawarma dogs after finding this place. Let me tell you about the toppings.” Sautéed onions, pickled vegetables, creamy sauces, Ric paints the image of a plump, spicy sausage smothered in delicious condiments in mouthwatering detail. The growling sounds increases.

“You describe a feast. Is really that good?”

“Best in Gotham.”

The passenger hums to himself, then checks his watch. “Take me there. Perhaps I will walk the rest of the way.”

“You got it, buddy.”

Ric watches the passenger exit, and the way he moves outside of the car is more dangerous than the rigid menace he conveyed to Ric. He watches Waris’ face, and there, the hesitation. He can sense something off too. He picks up his phone and sends a text to Mani.

“Hey, Mani. I picked up a guy. He made me nervous. Let me send you a picture. Someone might want to keep an eye on him.”

He sends the address and the destination for good measure, unsure why it matters or even why he did it. He’s not like Waris, the owner of the stand, who is a good man with a keen eye, and a love for Gotham that’s greater than Ric’s forgotten ties to the city. He’s not like Mani, who cares enough to rally people together and protect one another from the evil that preys on the weak.

He’s no one with nothing. Not even a care in the world.

Whistling, Ric pulls into the teaming Gotham traffic on the hunt for another fare.

 

* * *

 

On Wednesday nights, Ric goes to a ritzy restaurant on 8th Avenue and picks up an order of seasonal greens salad with goat cheese croutons and braised salmon in a raspberry reduction sauce and drives it to the offices of Wolstrom, Gaiters, and Holt located on the 41st floor of Gotham Towers. It’s the standing order for Adam Barnetti, his first regular. He has a soft spot for Adam and his penchant for sweet talk and trying to convince Dick to take his two-hundred-dollar fee and invest in company shares.

The night security agent waves him through the doors, and Ric ascends using the elevator. The floor is darkened when he alights. Only the faintest hint of city lights to mark his way through the sleek office space. Eventually, he hits the back of the floor where the partner offices are held, and there in the corner, Ric finds Adam’s door cracked. He hears the faint strains of conversation, and Ric waits, ears perked until the sounds end. He knocks twice before sliding through the gap, a smile fixed on his face.

“Delivery,” he says, cheerily. “Hot and fresh, just as you like it.”

Instead of Adam’s customary smile, Ric is pinned to the ground by a baleful look.

“Excuse me,” calls a voice from the speaker.

“Excuse me,” Adam says into a speaker. “My dinner is here. Genevieve, you may continue.” He jabs at the mute button, and then waves Ric over with the snap of his fingers.

Ric pauses at the door, brow raised, but walks over. “Somebody’s in a bad mood,” he says, mildly.

“We’re hemorrhaging clients and not a single fuckwit in this entire company can produce an executable strategy.”

“Not even yourself?” Ric knows he shouldn’t ask the question, but it’s worth it seeing Adam’s sour face grow pink. A little color is good for him.

“You’re a pretty boy, Ricky, but no one’s paying you for your wit.”

“That’s right. I’m getting paid for my service.”

“Then get to it.” Adam spreads his legs before reaching for the takeout. Ric kneels at his feet and begins tugging at the leather belt.

The meeting drones on in the background, frustrated voices hurling facts and figures accusingly across time zones. It’s not the first time Ric has been a silent witness to a call, but tonight feels different. The tension leaks into the air hanging wetly like a ripe cloud. There’s shouting here and there, nervous silence, and occasionally, Adam will send a cutting line into the mix while his knee jostles restlessly against Ric’s shoulder.

After ten minutes of gentle teasing and soft, suckling kisses to the head of Adam’s cock, he’s still half hard. Ric rests on his heels with a frown.

“Adam,” he begins quietly only to have his hand slapped away. Adam’s face is twisted in anger. The conference call voices rise and fall like a vengeful chorus.

“I’m surrounded by incompetent people,” he hisses, rising to his feet. “First the board with their inept decision-making, then my team, and now you.”

Ric rolls to his feet and edges around the desk, and Adam follows him, loosening his tie.

“I pay people to get results. I pay you to get things done. And you’re useless. Fucking useless. You’re all _fucking useless_.” Adam shoves him away, and then stands in the center of the office, hands on his hips. He takes in several violent breathes, and then his body slumps as if the strings holding him upright snapped.

The call continues in the background, refusing to allow either of them silence to think. Not that Ric needs to decide anything. He’s already collecting his cash and heading towards the door, quickly, unafraid, but angry in turn. Adam’s never been like this before. None of his regulars have been even the slightest bit volatile. And Ric doesn’t have to put up with this. One Saturday night and he’ll double what Adam drops on a Wednesday.

“I’m just going to leave.” Ric squeezes the door handle, ignoring the urge to stay and fix it. The urge that says he can make this right. “Don’t call me until you got this figured out.”

Adam inhales sharply. “Fuck you, you useless whore.”

Ric doesn’t mean to think of Red as he speeds down the hallway, but he does. He thinks about what Red would do in that situation. It’s hard to imagine that kind of impotent anger swirling through Red, who is tall, patient, and gets nervous when Ric edges into his personal space. Red, who gives Ric that little look of his, the one that creases his eyes and softens his features to something almost sweet.

Shaking his head, Ric steps into the night. He’s got better prospects right now. He can afford to let this one go. Gotham Towers bathrooms always smell like shit anyway.

 

* * *

 

The doctor told Ric to keep a journal or a diary to help him organize his thoughts. But Ric doesn’t want the regimented schedule of putting his days on paper, so he can go back and pour of them. He’d rather close his eyes in one place so he can open them to reveal another new and unexpected place. That’s how he discovers Ric Grayson, who he’s supposed to be, not who he was.

In his head, Ric keeps a running list of what he likes and dislikes though. Six weeks out of the hospital and the list continues to grow each day.

Ric doesn’t like yelling, rain, quiet places. He doesn’t like being without noise for too long, hates going without laughter for too long either.

Ric likes going new places, trying new things. He likes reaching the landing after a flight of stairs, the tiny click that traffic lights make when they change colors. He likes seeing children run, opening the door for older ladies and gentlemen. He likes the taste of peanuts and Choke swirled together. He likes Vietnamese food.

He likes people too. Mani, Waris, Bea, Octavia, Lawrence, Dr. Foster. He might like the kid. He likes Red.

He likes that Red will sometimes ask a question about the show, about his day. Feed him some dry line that Ric can return with a joke that drags a laugh from Red. Ric likes Red’s laugh. It’s rusty with disuse and comes with a half-smile that makes him seem so young. It sounds genuine each time Red relents enough to let it fall free.

And Ric likes Saturdays too, Saturday nights if he’s being specific. He likes the lazy excitement in the air and the colors that spread over the city in the form of materials, make up, and lights from the theaters, the clubs, and the restaurants. Ric looks forward to them.

 

* * *

 

The week has been long and the fares slim. Ric is looking forward to a quick infusion of money for nothing. He waits for two hours at the regular Saturday corner and turns down three johns for nothing. Red doesn’t show. It upsets Ric on a personal level, far deeper than it should.

He didn’t know about expectations. He didn’t remember the sayings about chickens and eggs in baskets, although some garbled phrases try to wind through his mind, chiding him for admitting that he wanted to see Red only for him to miss their appointment.

For a split second, Ric worries. Did he push too hard during their last encounter? Or worse, did something happen to Red? Will this golden client ever come back? He chases the thoughts off with a laugh. Those kinds of ideas never do you any favors.

Ric decides to close shop for the night. He turns off the fare lights turned and heads to the bar he’s come to think of as his place. The hangout spot for himself and his slow growing group of friends.

It’s kind of dead for a weekend, and after a few beers and shooting some lackluster pool on his end, Ric suggests Bea calls her sometimes boyfriend and the three of them head to a club.

Surprisingly, Bea shakes her head.

“Henry hasn’t been up for going out this week. You know, he works on a fishing boat that runs out of Bay South.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Bea sinks the eight ball into the side pocket, ending the game. She lays the stick on the table where Ric has been sitting watching her play. “You didn’t hear about Bay South? It’s been on the news for two days.”

“No. What happened?”

“There was a bombing out by the new plastic reclamation center.” She sighs at Ric’s blank look. “You have got to read the papers sometime, Gray.”

She goes over to the bar, then returns, slapping the Gotham Gazette into his chest. “You can’t live in this town and ignore the news. It’ll get you in trouble.”

The paper relates a grim tale of a public good project funded by the Wayne Foundation targeted by unknown assailants. Batman and his friends had disarmed thee small incendiary devices, but a fourth exploded, sending nine workers, including chemists and a tour guide, to the hospital with varying burn injuries.

“A good samaritan called in the man’s suspicious movements at the reclamation center entrance,” he reads slowly.

“Yeah. In school, they taught us that if we see something, we should say something.” She takes a sip of her beer. “Guess you don’t have to be a hero to do the right thing.”

Frowning, Ric folds the paper and tosses it on the nearest table. His stomach churns with some nameless emotion. He’d been right on the danger, right in turning it over to someone who would see something and say something. But the danger had been serious, and he’d made it another person’s problem. If Waris hadn’t. If Ric had only.

Had only what? Made the call himself. Did something about a potential problem before it starts. He knows he can, probably has dozens of times before but. He’s not that guy anymore. He doesn’t want to be that guy anymore. Burns whatever part of that life he can to the ground. Doesn’t want it. Doesn’t need it.

The more he thinks about it, the angrier he becomes. He hops off the table, shoving past a patron on his way to the bar. He orders a beer and drains the bottle.

Bea approaches him warily. “Hey. You alright?”

“No. But I will be in an hour. Call me later if you want to go out.” Ric heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” she calls behind him.

Ric turns back, a wicked grin on his face, and he hopes it masks the anger churning inside him. “Wherever I can find some trouble, babe.”

 

* * *

 

“Damn, you’re so pretty, I want you on your knees,” says his latest client, a sandy -haired male with jowly cheeks and the sloped shoulders of a former athlete. They’re bold words for a man who nearly came when Dick touched his cock, but Dick goes anyway, tugging the pressed khakis on his way down. Former athlete has a short, fat dick that spurts eagerly against his cheek. 

Ric doesn’t have to be a professional to tell this won’t last long.

“Oh, I can’t wait to get my mouth on this,” he croons, tickling at the tight sac in his palm. The condom goes on easily saving Ric's face and the john from an embarrassing situation. He mouths the head wetly, tongue stroking where his hand would be and then bobs down with a hungry moan.

“Yeah, yeah,” the john moans. “Take it you little slut.”

Ric sucks dutifully, working the short cock with his tongue and nipping lightly with his teeth. The john hisses, swiveling his hips. Ric only smiles up and him and presses a kiss to the base, jerking the length tight between his fingers. Even with his tricks, the john comes in under five minutes, foot kicking weakly while his fingers dig into Ric’s scalp.

The john puts himself back together, nods, then stumbles back towards the terrace they’d hopped to find a little privacy. Ric eases up from the concrete and rotates his shoulder. Easy work for the cash, but he doesn’t always like the conditions. Go back into the club or call it a night. He’s debating his options when a shadowy figure peels from the stage door.

“You put on quite the show.”

The voice is hungry, the grin sharp, and the wallet being pulled from a snake print jacket fat. Job Number 2 unrolls three fifties and waves them in the air. Attention caught, Ric gives him a second glance. Overly tanned middle-aged man with brown eyes, thick, brown hair, and decidedly upscale attire. Probably a businessman on the prowl with a designer wallet and attitude to match.

Ric slinks closer, allows the man to grab his belt and drag him close. The bills scrape over his abdomen. Ric smiles as if surprised by the move. “It feels like you’re looking for a repeat performance?”

“I already know it’ll be better than your little appetizer.” Sharkteeth, as Ric has named him, shoves the bills into his pocket and cops a feel. Ric gasps soulfully and rocks into the touch. It earns him another squeeze, a little too rough and hard to be entirely his taste, but his cock twitches. “Go on, get yourself a real meal.”

After blowing a quick kiss, Ric sinks down to his knees a second time. He keeps his head bowed while working the ivory inlaid button free and then freeing the squat dick from silk boxers. It’s heavy and thick, he thinks approvingly, and even though the “real meal” line had made him cringe inwardly, he agrees.

The condom covers the taste and the scent with the bland silicon, but nothing can hide the heat of hard cock resting on his tongue. He moans and sucks and swallows loudly, struggling free from the hard hands on his head so he can blink up at Sharkteeth.

“Oh, you are good,” Sharkteeth mutters, guiding Ric in again. He jabs his cock forward then holds while Ric swallows. “Yeah. Good, good. But you could be better. I’ve been watching you for a while, querido, and I know exactly what you need.”

Ric frowns at the endearment. It tickles something at the back of his mind, something he doesn’t like. He tries to pull back and answer, something sassy with a bit of heat, but Sharkteeth tightens his grip and thrusts forward, hard and fast. He chokes, but Sharkteeth keeps him there while Ric whines and sputters helplessly.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. You haven’t been trained, have you? Haven’t been broken down on a cock like this. But if you worked for me.” He finally eases free of Ric’s mouth, laughing at the spit hanging from his mouth. “Fuck, you’re a mess already. Simple bitches never know how to take it.” He wipes it away and the tears at Ric’s cheeks.

Ric slaps his hands away. “Fuck you,” he rasps, making to stand. Fingers curl into his chin and jerk his head back.

“Is that what you do? Try and leave before it gets good?” Sharkteeth clucks his tongue. “It’s not good for business, babe.”

“I don’t talk business during meals,” Ric growls.

Sharkteeth laughs mildly, hand moving over his cock. “Oh, I like you a lot. This is a one-time offer. You’ll join my stable tonight. I take sixty five percent of your fees, and I’ll protect you from big bad men like me.”

“I don’t need a pimp.” Ric bares his teeth.

Sharkteeth laughs again, a harsh, mean sound. “Did you somehow think this was an audition? I’m telling you right now, you’re mine.” He slaps Ric across his cheek then catches his jaw.

“What the fuck—” Ric yelps as another stinging blow lands across his face. His ears ring and his eyes burn.

“Shh, sshh. Just hush, querido. Everything’s going to be alright now that you’re one of my boys.”

The soft, condescending tones spill over Ric like cold water. For a second, he can’t move, he can’t breathe. A muted terror wells up in him, and he’s drowning. He can’t move. Heavy fingers dig into his jaw keeping him still. Darkness crowds the edge of his vision, rain splatters across his face. Pressure slides across his body, and no, no, no. He doesn't want this.

Ric explodes into motion. He rushes Sharkteeth at the knees and sends him to the ground. He pounds his fist down on his groin, hammering his cock until he howls, and then Ric raises to his knees.

“Fuck. You. You goddamn. Bastard.” Ric shouts between each swing of his fist. He hits hard, he knows it, has fought guys bigger than him and left them black and blue. Sharkteeth curls onto his side, moaning in pain.

Ric rises to his feet and brings down his foot. Once, twice, a sharp kick to the guy’s ribs and then he’s done. It’s over.

The alley provides cover for him, it’s long shadows shelter, and he instinctively knows to walk easily, head tilted down a little with his cell at his ear, gesticulating here and there to add to the charade. Finally, he finds a quiet side street to turn down, and places a real call.

“Hey Pretty Ricky!” Mani’s voice sounds sharp and real and safe. He’s safe.

Ric exhales slowly. “Hey Mani. I got a name to add to the history books. And a picture.”

“How’d you get that?”

Ric laughs, pulling a designer wallet from his back pocket. “I copped the bastard’s id.”

After relating the story, he takes a picture of Sharkteeth’s license and sends it to Mani and the collective. He takes the bills and rolls them into his pocket. And he takes Mani’s advice and gets his ass off the street for the night.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t like cigarettes, although he knows how to smoke. He does likes alcohol.

Sometimes Ric drinks because he likes the frothy loam of brewed hops. Other times, Ric drinks to ease the passage of time in the bar, at a club, a conversation, a moment. And sometimes he drinks so he can sleep at night without the day’s memories crawling through his mind. He doesn’t want to remember. Memories fade, they do not matter, but a part of him is desperate to keep them close. The ones that matter that is. The memories that belong to Ric Grayson.

These are mine, this part of him says, this is me and no one else.

 

* * *

 

Red returns the next night, because Ric can only have shitty days now, apparently.

They spot each other at the corner at the same time. And Ric swears that Red’s sudden change in posture is due to the purple lingering around Ric’s jaw. He can barely catalog the shift that occurs during the split second of mutual recognition. Red’s reactions are minute, from the clench of his jaw to the flick of his middle fingers, down, down, then holding like. Like he’s pulling a trigger. Then it falls away, and Red resumes his stride to the cab.

The silence is tense, Red pulling out his cash, and Ric waiting for the inevitable questions, but Red surprises him.

“Sterling Hotel,” he says, voice quiet. “14–”

Ric interrupts him, saying, “Yeah, yeah. I know the address.”

The funny thing about Red, other than his off-the-charts attractiveness, his assortment of clean, crisp, non-sequential bills, and his dedication to one look, is how he always sits in the center of the back seat. Every part of him is visible to Ric through the mirror. Right now, he can see Red shoving his fists into his jacket pocket and twisting them.

“Sounds like you had a rough week,” Red mutters.

“Sounds like? Not looks like?”

“Yeah. You’re usually. You know. Perky.”

“Well, if my favorite client hadn't bailed on me Saturday, I wouldn’t have had a shitty end to a shitty week.” Ric pauses, shocked at how much anger leaks into his voice, how bitter hot he feels inside. He relaxes his hands where they clench against the steering wheel.

Silence. Ric keeps his eyes on the road for the next couple of blocks, speeding around other cabs, tossing a muffled curse from time to time. He turns on the radio, but the music is canned pop voices, abstracted by poor falsetto, so he turns it off.

“Hey.” Red’s voice is soft and deep in the cab. His gaze is clear and ready to meet Dick’s in the mirror. “You can talk about it. If you want.”  
Ric snorts. “How about you tell me where you were Saturday.”

“You that put out about it?”

“You just don’t seem the type to bail on your dates, Red,” Ric replies easily. Hopes it sounds easily. He feels as awkward as this conversation and the soft lilt in Red’s voice, something that shouldn’t sound natural to him but somehow is.

“We’re dating?”

Ric shakes his head. “Fuck no. First, I don’t date clients, and I certainly wouldn’t date a man who won’t give me something to look forward to.” It slips out without a thought, and Ric inwardly freezes.

There are rules and there are rules. Don’t insult your ATM is at the top of the list. He flicks his gaze up in time to see Red’s jaw drop and something of a scandalize look crosses his face. Ric rolls to a stop at the light, expecting his ATM to hop out the car.

Red snorts. And the snort becomes something of a raspy chuckle. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head as if to clear it. “You are an asshole. Whatever happened to customer service?”

The amusement in Red’s tone is a good sign. Ric relaxes a touch.

“Had a shitty week, remember?”

“Well, I won’t hold it against you,” Red says.

“I kind of wish you would,” Ric mutters in reply. Judging by the replying chuckle, Red gets at least one of his meanings. Still, Ric feels more settled. His anger not gone, but banked, and he engages in sharp conversation with Red the rest of the way to the hotel.

Making a connection with people is easy. Liking the people he connects with, not so much. He could like Red if he wanted to if only for the conversation. Red is quicker than his awkward social skills allow for, and he has a bit of gallows humor that Ric finds amusing.

By the time he walks into the hotel room, Ric knows what he needs tonight. And it’s not a good night’s sleep.

He follows Red to his customary seat, bumping awkwardly against him. Red mumbles, “sorry,” like he’s at fault and then sits in the chair.

Tonight, Red’s wearing a pair of utilitarian gray cargo pants tucked into heavy black combat boots. They’re built for shit kicking, but then, Red’s entire body is built to press and loom and hold down, to stand strong against a raging inferno across from him. Ric perches on his knee, smiling when Red’s hands freeze, and a little color touches his cheeks.

Perhaps he’s remembering the last time Ric slipped into his lap. Ric certainly hopes so.

“Don’t you ever want to get comfortable? I mean this hoodie, those pants. You can just. Slip them off if you wanted.” His finger tugs at the zipper and he slides it down, down all the way down Red’s chest and belly revealing a black tee so tightly fitted, Ric can make out every line and curve of the muscle beneath. He traces a line down Red's abs and runs a his hand up Red’s inseam. A small grin touches his lips.

“Why are you so shy?” He gives the thick cock under his palm a squeeze before Red can stop him. “If I was packing like this. You couldn’t tell me nothing. I’d be the king of the world.”

“Get up,” is all he says. “Please. I just like it when you--”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You like it when I do what you say, daddy. Take care of me, daddy.” Ric’s shocked by the bitterness in his voice. He tries to laugh it away with a sly grin, but Red stares at him that clear green intensity that sucks Ric in every time. And then, wonder upon wonders, Red slowly lifts his hand. The back of his fingers stroke along Ric’s jaw briefly but the static shock of that touch vibrates through him.

“Tell me what happened.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ric says, because it doesn’t. He made it to the other side of his troubles. “What matters here is me and you. I’m just saying, you can think of it as fulfilling my needs. Think about it.” He drops his jeans by the bed and walks into the bathroom.

He’s not a pushy person. He understands boundaries, is sensitive to his client’s moods and desires. But it’s been a slow night after a slow week that’s also been a shitty one. He doesn’t want to drink, he doesn’t want to fight. He wants to fuck. Preferably get fucked by the one guy in Gotham who seems perfectly content to watch him sleep all night.

Unbelievable.

Ric resolves to ask Red one more time, making it clear that he’s definitely DTF. Or maybe offer an alternative.

Compromise. The word springs to mind and it seems to fit the moment. He remembers compromise. He can do that.

Tonight, Ric slips onto the bed in nothing but a white hotel towel folded up to reveal his smooth inner thighs. “Feel like changing the script tonight?”

“Not especially,” Red says. He doesn’t look up from his phone.

“You know, I’m good at sex,” Ric says. As openings go, it’s not his worst, but certainly not his best. He grabs Red’s attention though and that’s the only thing that matters. He spreads over the covers, lets his legs fall open and watches Red’s eyes trail down from his face to his thighs.

“Really good. If you don’t want to touch, you can watch me. Really watch me, Red.“

Red’s eyes crawl over him, and Ric shivers under their intensity, burning like club lights and he’s at the center of the dance floor. That hot from a look. He shivers, runs fingers lightly down his cock, watching it plump against his thigh, peak out from the towel. Then Red tugs his hoodie down a little, but Ric can see the slight shift of his head and the soft sad expression flickering over his usually blank face before it’s shrouded in blurred by shadows.

“Knock yourself out,” Red says, but that electric heat is gone. Ric can’t feel it on him anymore.

“You’re not even looking at me,” he snaps.

“I told you. I’m not here for that.” Red’s voice is soft, mild even, and that’s when Ric knows, the suspicions boiling over. Still he wants to be sure.

“I thought you were into watching me.”

“Yeah. Sleep.”

Ric eyes him, suspicions connecting with that strange awareness of his that can read people so well. The way Red looks at him, the way he’s hands off but awkwardly, forcefully close. Like he’s holding back.

“What’s my name?”

“Pretty Ricky,” Red replies, but Ric hears the slight hesitation between Red’s inhale and the words he uttered. The pause when choosing between his name and the one he used before in a life he can’t remember.

Anger unfurls in Ric’s chest, anger at himself for being so stupid and at Red for leading him on this ride for so long. He tears up from the bed with a violent huff. "You’re fucking one of them, aren’t you?”

“Who?”

"My family.” Just saying the word makes him feel sick. Disgusted. He watches Red, who only shakes with quiet laughter. The sound is different from anything he’s heard from Red before, and yes, he doesn’t know the guy, nothing about him said he’d laugh like black tar coffee burning in the gas station pot at three in the morning. Ric doesn’t expect the sound or how deeply it resonates.

“So, you are family.”

Red shakes his head again, a humorless smirk on his lips. “No, we’re not family.”

“Then you’re like Barbara? Oh, excuse me, Babs. We’re friends?” he sneers that word too, anger ascending into something volatile because Red leans back in his seat, disengaging from him for some reason.

“No. We’re not friends either.”

“Then come over here and fuck me.”

“Ric—” he says, quietly, fucking regretfully.

“No,” Ric shouts. “You want to give me your money because you knew me before and you feel sorry for me, fine. I’ll take your fucking money. But you’re gonna make me work for it.”

“I’m not here for that.”

“No, you’re here for him. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me.”

Red sits there, a silent statue in the half light. If it’s in shock or indecision doesn’t matter. The moment hangs, the seconds tick, and then it’s over.

“Fuck this bullshit.” Ric grabs his things, shoves his legs into his jeans and tosses his gray hoodie and jacket on, boots, cursing the entire time. Then he pulls out his wallet, takes out the cash and throws it in Red’s face.

“I’m not fucking him.”

The door slams shut, and Ric stalks down the darkened hallway with his head held high. Alone.


End file.
